Tribulations of the Shortcut Man
Page 19
Another rendition of the Lewis will was located. At the hearing, a platoon of cranks researching UFOs, reincarnation, alchemy, reverse speech, automatic writing, remote viewing, ectoplasmic visitation, and ESP were surprised to encounter seven very blond, very busty women in their midst. Ranging from forty to sixty-five, Stormy, Kitty, Windy, Lola, Ginger, Lisa, and Lulu had apparently performed singular service on Art’s behalf over the years and each received a hundred thousand dollars cash. Penelope Grafton was bequeathed five hundred thousand dollars.
Of which she gave me a generous 15 percent.
“You don’t have to, Puss,” I’d said.
“But I want to, Dick,” she replied.
Well. Okay.
Upon reaching downtown Los Angeles I went south on Central Avenue. Bledsoe Park was a fading memory. Azure Gardens was in its infancy, but in full swing, large tracts of large Spanish-style homes rising from the fresh dark soil. But in the middle of this nascent paradise a park had been established, and that’s where I was going.
The park was small, two hundred feet on a side. In the center of the park was a modest two-story house, now repaired and repainted, surrounded by a large green lawn and perfect, white picket fencing. A sign proclaimed the site was the historical home of Charles Ransom Scott, a man who stood up for truth, for justice, for all men. It was hoped he still might come back.
On the lawn, at the podium, stood three people. The mayor of Los Angeles, Mr. Robert Patrick, and Nedra Scott.
I missed the mayor’s speech but he never said anything anyway.
Patrick was finishing up his remarks. Heroes arose with necessity. When Los Angeles needed Charles Ransom Scott, Charles Ransom Scott had stepped forward. And had paid the bitter price. This park would be an everlasting testimony to Ransom’s belief in a better America.
Then Patrick introduced Nedra Scott. Nedra graciously thanked the mayor, thanked Mr. Patrick, thanked the people everywhere, but especially those of Bledsoe Park for keeping the memory and ideals of her brother alive. Alive here, right here, in the very home he had grown up in. A home to be preserved, untouched, for the ages. “We will meet here again when he returns,” Nedra concluded. The crowd cheered. Nedra waved and stepped off the world stage.
I greeted her on the grass. She was relaxed and looked good.
“You’re a good speaker,” I said.
She nodded. “Thank you. And that’s the last of it.”
Latrell had come up by her side. We shook hands, small-talked. He was playing a little alto sax now.
“Eric Dolphy,” said Dick Henry, jazz scholar. Of course, I didn’t know anything about Dolphy. Wouldn’t recognize a note of his music. Dolphy was Rojas’s favorite artist.
“Didn’t think you’d know about him,” said Latrell.
“You’d be surprised what I know.”
“What did you find out about my uncle?”
I shook my head. “Nothing more. I looked around. But nothing. Sorry.”
“I think he’s under the house,” said Latrell.
Christ Jesus. Fibissedeh face tried to hang on. Tried to pretend he was thinking. I don’t know if Latrell was fooled but Nedra had turned to me. “We gotta go.”
I nodded, swallowed. “What are you going to do now?”
“Going to go live in Amsterdam for a while,” said Nedra. “See what life is like on the other side of the world.”
Sounded like a plan. Latrell eyed me. I hoped he wasn’t as smart as his mother. But he probably was.
Nedra looked at me, into me, with her dark eyes, then stepped forward, hugged me long and strong. “Goodbye,” she whispered, “Hud.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Kostabi #3
I found the Harbor Freeway and rolled north. At the 10 I headed west. For Pacific Palisades. Kiyoko had not called me, but I thought, the hell with it, I’ll just go over there and tough it out.
I parked in front of her house, took the package from my backseat, walked to the doorbell, and rang.
Kiyoko opened up. Hand on hip, she looked skeptically at me. “Dick. What is it you want?”
Geez. I was nervous. “I have something for you.”
My declaration didn’t get me far. “Yes? What?”
My package was a large, flat rectangle. “A painting. I’ve brought you a painting.”
“A painting? You?”
“Maybe you don’t know the real me.”
“Maybe I do.”
“If you did you’d be missing me.”
Kiyoko’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “A painting?”
I opened the box, lifted it out, held it up for her.
Her eyes went wide. “Kostabi! Kostabi?”
I shrugged. “Of course it’s a Kostabi. What am I, a barbarian?”
“I love Kostabi,” she breathed.
Isn’t that the purpose of art? To express what cannot be communicated in words? “This is for you,” I said, handing it to her. “Kostabi Number Five.”
She was awe-stricken, looked up me uncomprehendingly. “It looks . . . it looks real.”
“It should look real. It is real.”
It was real. Dennis Donnelly, now adrift in Mexico, had, at my further instruction, painted two phonies.
Kiyoko looked up into my face wonderingly. “You really care about me, don’t you?”
Of course I did.
“Yes, dear, I do.”
Two diamond tears rolled down her face and she reached up with her two tiny, perfect hands, placed one on each side of my unpretty face, and kissed me tenderly on the lips.
“Come into my home, Dick Henry,” she said.
I smiled. “Okay.”
I went in.
Hud.
Acknowledgments
Andrew C. Rigrod, Esq.
Paul Pompian
Ryan Harbage
Anna deVries
Thank you all for your support and encouragement.
Song lyrics courtesy of Pearly King, www.pearlykingmusic.com.
About the Author
p. g. sturges was born in Hollywood, California. Punctuated by fitful intervals of school, he has subsequently occupied himself as a submarine sailor, a Christmas tree farmer, a dimensional metrologist, a writer, and a musician.
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